Flowers for a Funeral
by AGENT Kuma-chan
Summary: Maybe they're both dead and they just haven't realized it yet. -Morgan, Morgan, and Avatar/Robin/Grima


**Title:** Flowers for a funeral

**Prompt:** November 18 / What is it that drives a man and sustains him, after he's left everything he's ever known?

**Character/Pairing:** Morgan, Grima

**A/N:** I subscribe to the 'twin morgan' theory, and so I'm putting them both here. But it would get confusing if I just called them both 'morgan', so the girl!morgan will be called morgana. This takes place post the future!pack extension.

Also, urgggh, I really like the idea I have here, but execution…urgggghhh

**Summary: **Maybe they're both dead and they just haven't realized it yet.

...

...

...

...

"Mother!" Morgan cradles what's left of Grima. Her body is cold, too cold, and he is too late. In this empty courtyard, the signs of battle scar the ground and he is too late.

He should never have hesitated before.

The blood on her body is drying and only faintly marks his hands as he shifts her. "I should have killed them back then."

"Me too." His sister kneels beside him, gently grasping their mother's limp hands. "I didn't think…"

Her voice breaks before she can complete the thought and he can only nod. Grima was immortal, the all powerful.

She wasn't supposed to die like this.

"Mother…" He pushes back her hair, the blood matting it down. "She looks like…you know…_her._"

"I faced her too." Morgana replies, wiping the blood off her mother's face. "That other one…she acted like mother when she was…calmer."

"I couldn't fight her." His face feels brittle, the tears drying on his cheeks. He can't summon the energy to deal with it.

"You think…if mother could control herself…she'd be more like _her_?" Morgana asks, a soft sob tailing her words. His own throat feels dry, too dry.

And he feels empty. Cold. He leans against his sister, hoping her heat can warm him up.

It only reminds him of how alone they are.

"Maybe…maybe Lucina could have been our older sister then."

"And Father…maybe we could have played with father."

"I don't think we can go to her now though…" Morgan closes his eyes, listening to his sister's heartbeat. "We…we did too many things."

"I don't think she even knows about us. _We_ watched her." Morgana rests her head on top of his. "She seems like a nice sister."

"She'd be stern."

"I'd cause her so much trouble." Morgana's breathing shallows and she hesitates before adding, "Do you hate her?"

Morgan closes his eyes, not wanting to answer. It's so silent out here, in the ruins. Even now he can smell the smoke and fire, the destruction that he helped bring about. Opening his eyes, he looks at his mother, at the wounds that litter her body. "A little."

"A little more for me. I don't think I could live with her even if she wanted us to."

"Not now at least." Morgan rests his hand on top of his sister's. She feels so cold too. Maybe they're both dead and they just haven't realized it. "I…I still want to watch her."

"From a distance. A little." Morgana moves her other hand on top of his, sandwiching it. Squeezing it, she continues, "I don't know what to do now."

"Mother…she never told us what to do when if this happened."

"She couldn't see it either."

"What do people do with the dead?" There's something lodged in his throat, a cry he wants to scream out. But he can't make the noise, can't find the right sound.

"I don't know…we can't just leave her. Maybe a fire?"

"Later." He can't picture it, can't summon the magic that lurks inside the tomes he has.

It feels like it's years before they get up and make their way off the hill top. Years before they can gain the energy to come back and take care of their mother.

They walk leaning against each other like crutches, their hands firmly glued together. "It hurts."

Morgana nods. "I want to go home."

"I want _a_ home." He starts to cry, big fat tears sliding down his cheeks. A noise, almost animal-like, escapes him.

It doesn't' surprise him when Morgana does the same.

He tries hard not to think about the hand that should be scolding him, comforting him.

(and if he tries hard enough, he can hear it, feel it)


End file.
